


Fire on the Harbor

by hennethgalad, maglor_still_lives



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Action, Alqualondë, Blood and Violence, First Kinslaying, Gen, Original Character(s), The Noldor, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-07-06 15:22:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15888735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hennethgalad/pseuds/hennethgalad, https://archiveofourown.org/users/maglor_still_lives/pseuds/maglor_still_lives
Summary: When Fëanor's army arrives at Alqualondë, tensions come to a head. A Telerin carpenter leaves for a normal day at work, and an officer in Feanor's army goes to a heated council. The tale of the First Kinslaying through the eyes of both sides.(Based on hennethgalad's painting "The Elf," and part of the 2018 Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang event.)





	Fire on the Harbor

**Author's Note:**

> Here's the amazing art that inspired this piece! https://hennethgalad.dreamwidth.org/1878.html

Eluen scraped the last bit of porridge from his bowl. Gulls cried and the waves crashed in the background, sounds that had faded into white noise for him after so many years.

His wife dropped her bowl by the fire. “I’ll see you tonight.” She left with a kiss and a wave.

Eluen waved back, watching her vanish into the throngs of people making their way to the wharves. She was an engineer, designing ships that were faster, stronger, and more able to withstand the the tides and tumults of the Belegaer. Her latest project was to improve the ships’ sail designs so they wouldn’t be so dependent on the wind direction to plot their course.

He gave his bowl a quick scrub, leaving it by the fireside to dry. He could deal with it that evening; he was going to be late. He grabbed a piece of bread for lunch, then hurried out the door.

Their home wasn’t so far from the docks--they lived in a large cluster of houses just southwest of town. Almost everyone there worked at the seaside as fishermen, carpenters, sailors, or merchants.Eluen himself was a junior carpenter, making furnishings to go in the ships’ quarters. Someday, he wanted to sculpt the magnificent mastheads that adorned the prows of the Telerin ships. But that was a lot of time and training away from reality.

He turned down the main street of Alqualondë, past the streets of merchants hawking seafood from the east and fine metalworking from the west. Eluen ducked into the carpentry shop he worked in; it was just a block off the main street.

The shop was cluttered by equipment and unfinished projects; Eluen had to pick his way around lathes, vices, and racks of tools ranging from massive saws to tiny chisels. The ceiling of the shop was low wood beams and the timber walls were interrupted by diamond leaded windows. Sawdust hung in the air, mingling with the smoke of the candles they burned in the absence of Laurelin’s light. Together, they formed silver-gold clouds that hung stagnant among the half-finished furniture.

The head carpenter didn’t acknowledge Eluen’s tardiness. He merely handed Eluen a set of new chisels and said, “I need you to finish that chair today. It needs to be assembled and sanded so it can be varnished tomorrow.”

Eluen nodded. “I’ll start right away.”

  
  
  


Draugil’s eyes snapped open as the morning trumpet sounded. Groggy, he pulled off his blanket and stared into the darkness. He was already sweaty, he noted with displeasure; the air by the seaside was warm and humid both day and night.

He supposed there was only night now.

Nevertheless, he stood up and buckled on his armor.  _ We have to be prepared _ , Fëanáro said.  _ We could be attacked at any moment. _

He shuffled around in his bag and pulled out half a loaf of stale bread. He could hear muffled shouting outside; clearly, Fëanáro was already awake. There would be no time for hot breakfast today.

Draugil ripped off a bit of bread,  ducked under the flap, and made his way to Fëanáro’s tent, nearly running down the rows in haste. All around him elves emerged from their tents. Some of them looked groggy, but most were wide awake and spoiling for a fight. They had been camped here for three days and the soldiers were starting to get bored.

Fëanáro’s pavilion stood separately from the others, leaving room for a battalion to surround it and too far away from the rest of camp for a fire to spread to it. It was the tallest structure in the camp, made of crimson fabric with designs picked out in gold. Two guards stood at the door, the starlight glinting off their dew-kissed armor. “Colonel!” they exclaimed, jumping into a salute.

Draugil knocked on the crossbeam of the pavilion. The voices kept shouting from inside; he didn’t know if anyone had heard him. Rather than wait, he nodded to the guards and ducked inside. As one of the brigade commanders, with close to three thousand troops under his command, he ranked just below Fëanáro and was expected to be at the council meetings.

Feanor was standing by the table with his sons clustered around him. The tall one, Nelyafinwë, hovered by his left side, and Curufinwë by his right. Kanafinwë sat on the other side of the table, facing the group with a judicious cast to his eyes. The twins and Turcafinwe hovered to the side, while Morifinwë stood beside Kanafinwë.

Nearly all of them were shouting.

“The self-importance!” Fëanáro shouted. His lungs were like furnace bellows and his voice, when raised, was alarmingly loud. “The gall!” He slammed a piece of parchment onto the table.

“We don’t know that their word is final,” Kanafinwë countered from his seat across the table. His voice was smooth and calm, as it always was. Draugil couldn’t remember ever seeing him lose composure. 

“Yes, we do,” Curufinwë rebuffed. “Where does he leave room for argument?”

“Maybe not in the letter,” said Morifinwë. “But anyone can be persuaded.”

Turkafinwë’s eyes narrowed at this, but he did not speak. The massive dog by his feet gave a soft growl.

Draugil stood by the wall of the tent, waiting for the argument to abate so he could approach and read the letter. He looked to his left; Colonel Laegfin, another brigade commander, stood there, also clad in full plate and mail. He nodded at Draugil, then returned his exasperated gaze back to the squabbling princes.

Fëanáro paced the room, too agitated to sit still. “He calls our mission folly! He wants us to turn back. He thinks we should remain slaves.” He turned, snarled, and walked in the other direction. “The Valar put these ideas in his head. It is up to us to drive them out.”

Nelyafinwë still stood by the letter. While the rest of the family’s attention was on Fëanáro on the other side of the pavilion, Draugil slipped next to him and scanned it. It was written in Fëanáro’s alphabet and the Noldorin tongue, transcribed carefully by a scribe’s flowing hand. 

 

_ We renounce no friendship. But it may be the part of a friend to rebuke a friend's folly. And when the Noldor welcomed us and gave us aid, otherwise then you spoke: in the land of Aman we were to dwell for ever, as brothers whose houses stand side by side. But as for our white ships: those you gave us not. We learned not that craft from the Noldor, but from the Lords of the Sea; and the white timbers we wrought with our own hands, and the white sails were woven by our wives and our daughters. Therefore we will neither give them nor sell them for any league or friendship. For I say to you, Feanor son of Finwe, these are to us as are the gems of the Noldor: the work of our hearts, whose like we shall not make again. _

 

“What do you think we should do?” Nelyafinwë asked Draugil, turning away from his shouting family.

“You made an oath,” the colonel replied. “These ships are the fastest way to keep it. You have an army, Olwë doesn’t. We can use that.”

Nelyafinwë shook his head ruefully. “You sound like Moryo. Neither of you will even  _ say _ the word intimidation.”

Draugil looked back at the letter. The prince was right; that word was uncomfortable. “I make no moral pronouncements. But that is the most certain strategy.”

Nelyafinwë sighed. “Probably.”

“ _ Fine _ !” Fëanáro shouted, drawing Draugil’s attention back to him. “Moryo, you’re right. If he will not listen to our words, we will make him. Muster the troops!”

  
  
  


Eluen rubbed sandpaper over a chair leg, stripping off the wood until it was shaped into the proper curve and smooth enough to be stained.

“Why does this have to be done so soon?” he asked into the silence.

The head carpenter looked up from his work table. “It’s for the prince’s new ship. They want it to set sail in a week. Same for the other chairs you made, they’re going to that ship too.”

Eluen had seen that ship from the dock. It was a massive creation of pure white timber and inlaid silver. The masts towered above the city walls, and even rolled up, the sails shimmered in silver-white. Like nearly all Telerin ships, the figurehead was a swan. Its wings were stretched back along the gunwales, as though the ship were ready to take flight. Eluen double-checked his unfinished chair; he was suddenly insecure about its quality. Surely nothing he made could adorn so fine a vessel.

Gingerly, he went back to sanding the legs down. The prince hadn’t ordered anything fancy, which was a relief; just a smooth curve with a pad foot. Eluen could do that.

When the chairs looked done, he took a lunch break. He took his hunk of bread, which was now getting stale, and walked out down the wharves. There was a chill in the air.

He wandered past the shops, squinting past the lanterns that stood on the walls every few yards. He breathed in the mixture of sea air and smoke. Was it really midday? The position of the stars would suggest it, but it didn’t  _ feel _ like noon.

Rumor had it that the light of the Trees was gone because of the Noldor, the very same people who were camped outside the city gates. Eluen didn’t know what exactly they had done, but the absence of the light and their sudden, warlike appearance couldn’t be a coincidence. Eluen shivered in the wind, and suddenly, he was glad of the city’s thick walls.

  
  


Fëanáro stod at the gate, his army lined up behind him. The starlight shone on their spearheads, and the red plumes on their helmets blew in the wind. “ _ The High King Curufinwë Fëanáro Finweon seeks entrance to the city _ ,” Fëanáro’s herald cried to the ramparts. “ _ He demands audience with Olwë of Alqualondë. _ ”

The guards peered down from above the drawbridge. Draugil could see their uncertainty in the way they looked between each other, the host, and the city keep. After a moment, one called down, “We will admit Curufinwë, but none other.”

“Unacceptable,” Fëanáro growled. He looked back at his army, at the rows of torches stretching far back onto the plain. He seemed to decide that it was sufficient. “ _ If you do not open the gate for us, we will open it by force. _ ” He ignored his herald, instead calling to the gatehouse himself.

Draugil shifted his feet. He felt his heart pick up speed, and he gently eased his sword an inch out of its scabbard and back again, just to make sure it was ready. If this came to a fight, it would be his first.

The guard took a long time responding. Draugil guessed that they had sent a messenger to the tower, looking for guidance from a higher officer. That’s what he would have done.

But Fëanáro was getting impatient. “I built these walls,” he muttered. “It’s only fitting that I should tear them down. We will enter the city now.”

“How?” Nelyafinwë asked. “We don’t have a way to open the doors.”

“Light them on fire.” Fëanáro replied.

“It will take even longer for the flames to die down,” his eldest son responded. “I say we wait for the messenger to return.”

Fëanáro fell silent for a moment. “When they get back, I will agree to their original conditions,” he said. “I will persuade Olwë to open the doors for us.”

A minute later, the guard returned, another elf in tow. The three huddled together for a moment, then one shouted down, “Our conditions are unchanged. Fëanáro must enter alone, or not at all.”

“I agree to your terms,” Fëanáro called back. “Open the door and let me through.”

Rather than open the main gate, a small side door opened up. Before the High King could even walk inside, the guards had stripped him of his sword and shield, although Draugil doubted that was all of the weapons he carried.

As he watched Fëanáro disappear, Draugil had a sudden feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach. A cold wind blew from the city, and he fought down the urge to shudder at the breeze.

The gates opened.

Slowly, painstakingly, the iron-bound oaken doors swung outward. The humid air muffled the high-pitched creaking sound of the hinges. Clearly, the door wasn’t often used; the Teleri had closed it in haste when the Noldor appeared.

“How many are we taking inside?” Nelyafinwë asked.

“The first division,” Fëanáro said, with grim determination on his face.

_ The entire division? _ Draugil thought. That was close to fifteen thousand soldiers. The city would be packed.

Once the gates were opened, Fëanáro motioned to his sons. “I want you to keep to the flanks,” he said. “Go up and down, keep watch. Make sure nothing threatens us.”

They nodded. “Yes, father.”

  
  
  


Eluen sat down on the wharf, gnawing on his stale bread. He stared out across the black water. There was land on the other side, people said; the place from which the Teleri had migrated. In theory, you could see it from where he sat, but right now it was simply too dark and too far away.

He was chewing absentmindedly when he noticed that the sounds of the wharves were gone. The people bustling about, the workers, and even the gulls had fallen silent. Only the sound of the waves remained, as it always would. 

Eluen turned around hurriedly. The street was deserted. Looking closer, however, he saw people peering out from doorways and windows. He jumped to his feet. In the distance, he could hear what sounded like a thousand people walking, the vibration humming through the earth.

He darted across the street, ducking into the nearest shop. The bell on the door tinkled as it swung open, and he winced. The store was selling intricate machines from across the continent, and when he entered, Eluen nearly crashed into a grandfather clock. He turned away from the dark interior and towards the street.

All was calm, for a moment. But the vibration got closer and closer, until suddenly, Eluen could see the shadows of elvish troops on the street corner. They came around the corner, bearing shields, swords, and tall spears. The yellow lanterns cast harsh shadows in the Noldors’ eye sockets and under their sharp cheekbones. They were thin and sharp-looking, Eluen thought, like the ospreys that nested by the shipyard. Other than that, they looked like the Teleri: with long black hair and silver-grey eyes.

Eluen kept his head indoors, staring out from behind the display window. The window was crowded with onlookers, and he felt their nervous breath on his skin. The pit of his stomach was churning, but his thoughts were not of cowardice. These elves had destroyed the light and the peace of Aman, and now they threatened his home.

“ _ Bastards _ ,” he muttered. Eluen thumped his fist against the glass. The muffled  _ thud _ echoed around the shop.

It was loud enough, apparently, to be heard outside as well; a few of the Noldor’s heads snapped towards the window and fixed him in their burning gaze. Eluen fought the urge to back away as the crowd shuffled anxiously around him, leaving him alone by the window as they backed away.

“I meant that,” he said, loudly this time. “Cowards. Traitors. Misbegotten, treacherous, contemptible swine.”

The Noldor army gave no indication of hearing him. But an elf standing by the side turned about. With two long strides he crossed the street, where he slammed one palm against the glass and with the other hand, pointed a dagger at Eluen’s face.

“ _ Say that again _ ,” he hissed. This Noldo’s hair, unlike the others’, was a blond so pale it was almost white. 

Eluen shivered outright, breaking eye contact to look at the floor. He backed away from the window and disappeared into the crowd that was clustered in the back.

  
  
  


Fëanáro stood beneath the lord’s keep. “ _ Olwë! _ ” he shouted. “ _ This is your last chance! Give us the ships now, or we will take them by force _ .” The message was short, but what else was there to say?

A moment of silence, and then, a voice called down, “Prince Olwë refuses your demand. If you wish to have the ships, you must claim them.”

“Idiot,” Fëanáro muttered. He turned to Laegfin and Draugil. “Draugil, take your brigade to the wharf. Laegfin, hold the gate. We attack on my signal.”

With a “Yes sir!” the colonels saluted and dashed off to their posts.

Draugil walked down the street as fast as he could, sweating under his armor. His feet slid off the rounded cobblestones, nearly making him stumble. Unlike Tirion, the streets here were made with round, uncut cobblestones rather than flat, even flagstones. He wished he had a horse, but on this surface and in such cramped conditions, riding would be more dangerous than walking.

He went a few blocks and turned, searching for the docks. The army hadn’t had time to study the city plan, so he followed the sound of the waves and hoped that would lead him there.

The wharves were farther away than he had realized. Maybe he had taken a wrong turn; the crashing waves seemed no closer than it had several blocks back. All the sounds were echoing off the buildings, making it nearly impossible to tell where the sound was coming from.

There was a sudden roar. Draugil turned and paused for a step; behind him, the lord’s tower had become a massive bonfire. Flames licked up the sides, nearly touching the highest windows.

_ Shit. SHIT! _ That was the signal. Draugil broke into a run, armor clanking as he stumbled down the streets. He dropped his spear by the roadside. It was slowing him down, and besides, he wasn’t very good with it anyway. His training was with the sword. 

The sound of the waves faded beneath the rush of blood in his ears and the clanging and scraping of his plate and mail. 

A few blocks later he began to hear the sounds of battle above his heavy breathing. That meant he was going in the right direction. 

  
  
  


Eluen looked out the window at the gleaming masses of soldiers on the docks, then quickly back at the other Teleri in the shop. “What’re they doing?” he asked. “Great Valar. They’re taking the ships.”

An angry murmur went up behind him.  _ This is theft _ . The ships were the Teleri’s finest work, unique and irreplaceable. Nearly every one of them had helped to create the vessels, and they shared a common pride in the swan-shaped boats. 

“We have to fight them,” Eluen said. “Everybody grab a weapon!” The crowd began stripping the shop bare, taking fire pokers, intricately inlaid bows, knives with rippling blades, and anything else that seemed strong or sharp. Eluen held a piece of firewood as long as his forearm, heavy enough to be a good bludgeon.

He felt the momentum of the crown build up behind him, and he slammed open the door. With a shout, he charged across the street. They crashed into the Noldorin ranks.

They fenced as best they could, using firewood and pieces of steel to block the Noldors’ blades. The Teleri with bows kept to the back of the fight, firing volleys into the crowd of Noldor.

Eluen swung his log at a Noldo’s head, landing his blow with a jarring  _ clang _ that made the elf drop to the ground. Another swung a sword at him; Eluen blocked the blade and another Teleri stabbed the Noldo in the neck.

The Teleri were keeping to the outside of the Noldor’s ranks, meaning that the soldiers on the inside of the army were effectively useless. The Noldor clustered ever closer together, inching away from the ferocity of the poorly armed Teleri.  _ We are swans _ , Eluen thought,  _ the fiercest of birds _ .

The crowd of Noldor began to thin out; some fell to Telerin arrows, but many of them also ran back towards the ships. This commotion made the fighting cease for a moment; Eluen paused to breathe. On the ground lay a dead Telerin elf, and clutched in her hand was a six-inch fillet knife. Eluen pried her fingers from the knife, muttering an apology. He held it in his right hand, letting the log dangle from his left.

The thinning ranks gave Eluen space to duck between the soldiers, driving his knife into every chink in Noldorin armor he could find. His heart pounded. He wished he had some armor, some kind of protection. Arrows were still falling into the crowd, and one could hit him as easily as it could any of the attackers.

  
  
  


The crowd was so thick that Draugil couldn’t move for fear of stabbing one of his own men. Most of the crowd were Noldor; the Teleri were keeping a safe distance and firing arrows into the cluster. The clamor of shields and armor colliding in the cramped space was painfully loud, and above it was the incoherent orders being shouted by seemingly every officer to his soldiers. The stench of blood and seaweed swirled in the chilly wind.

Another volley of arrows arced overhead; Draugil huddled behind his shield as they fell on the elves. Screams sounded from all around him, but the wounded didn’t have the space to fall over.  _ We’re like fish in a barrel _ , Draugil thought. He shoved through the crowd until he found a lieutenant he knew.

“Take your squad and sneak around back. Attack whoever’s firing the bows from the back or the side. We’ll defend the ships.”

“Yes sir!” the lieutenant shouted over the din. He elbowed to the edge of the throng, calling his soldiers to follow him.

Draugil pushed his way through to the dock. Suddenly, the crowd ended, and he found himself staring out at the ocean.

He had never seen it before. It stretched away to the horizon, all the way to a distant smudge that might have been land. The waves rose and fell against the dock, spraying him with salty water. It smelled foul, like fish and rotting plants.

He turned back to the fight. The clump of Noldor was so close they were cutting each other with their swords. “Spread out!” he bellowed. “Get on the ships and hold them.” Nobody seemed to hear. He grabbed a warrior by the shoulder and thrust him toward the pier. “Make sure nobody gets on the ships!” The warrior nodded. Draugil watched as more and more soldiers got the message, and took off towards the ships. He was glad to get them away from the battle. That might save their lives. 

The Teleri were growing in number; more and more of them were running out of the buildings and attacking Fëanáro’s army. Draugil cursed them internally. They were endangering his peoples’ lives as well as their own. A few had gotten behind the Noldor’s ranks, where they spun and slashed, bringing elves down around them. A few wielded swords and spears they had taken from the Noldor, but most brandished sticks, fire pokers, pitchforks, and other household implements. And they were amazingly effective, considering that the Teleri had never fought a battle.

He wished there didn’t have to be so much bloodshed. The Teleri could have handed over the ships peacefully. They could have reached an agreement, although granted, Fëanáro was not an easy person to negotiate with. It was Olwë’s fault that his people were dying. 

Draugil heard a clatter of hooves on the cobblestones. He turned to look and saw, several blocks away, a group of riders loping towards the army. They ran into the Noldor infantry, stabbing down with sharpened pitchforks. The horses slipped and skidded, unable to find good footing on the round stones, but the Teleri kept their seats and pressed the advantage.

Closer in, he saw a Teler working his way through the ranks. He moved fast, that one; none of the Noldor seemed to be able to catch him. Eluen slipped between the attacking soldiers like a fish, hitting them in their weak points and bringing them down one by one.

A roar sounded from behind him; Draugil whirled back to face the ships. One of the smaller vessels had caught fire. The flames licked all the way up the mast, and Draugil could feel their heat from where he stood. Several dark shapes lept from the stern, trailing flames until they hit the water with a splash.

A sudden unease made him turn around again. Perhaps it was just the feeling of breath on the back of his neck, or the rustle of a shoe on the planks, but his instincts suddenly told him to turn around.

And not a moment too soon. As he turned, pain erupted on Draugil’s back, just under his breastplate. He staggered but didn’t fall, and when he found his balance he was facing another elf. The Teler held a long knife, the kind used to clean fish. His long blond hair was tangled around his face. Before Draugil could attack again, Eluen lunged for the gap between his breastplate and shoulder armor. 

Draugil felt the knife sink in deep, couldn’t even form a scream. Fortunately, it was his left arm; his shield fell to the ground with a  _ clunk _ , but he kept his sword. The sound, and the realization that he was in imminent danger, brought him back to his senses. Eluen stabbed at him again, this time aiming for the throat; Draugil staggered backward and knocked his blade aside. The tip of his sword grazed Eluen’s forehead, and blood immediately began flowing down the Teler’s face.

Draugil gathered himself, straightened up, and pressed the attack. Without his shield, he had to be more cautious, and he could feel himself weakening from pain and blood loss. The edge of the dock was near, and he didn’t want to risk falling off, so he tried to circle a bit to the right.

Hot blood poured down Eluen’s face, obscuring the vision in his right eye. He adjusted his grip on the knife, which was getting slippery, and ducked under Draugil’s blade. He shuffled his feet, staying in front of Draugil as the Noldo tried to sneak around him. 

Draugil was clearly tiring, but Eluen was losing blood too. He parried Draugil’s blade with his stick, and tried to hit him on the head with it. Draugil dodged the blow and slashed at Eluen’s unguarded chest.

The Teler staggered back, gasping. The wound stretched diagonally from his stomach to his collarbone, exposing creamy-white ribs that glinted under the starlight. His legs gave out and he lost his footing, falling backward and pitching over the edge of the dock.

Draugil didn’t see him fall, but he heard the splash as the corpse hit the water. 

He stood for a moment, regaining his balance. He couldn’t move his left arm without fiery pain in his shoulder, and his stomach felt sick. Eluen’s blood, still hot, was splattered across his face and chest. He wanted to vomit.  _ Why _ . Why was Fëanáro so impatient to get the Silmarils back that he would rather lose a thousand lives than wait a few days and keep trying to negotiate?

The Noldo hobbled back toward shore; the fire on the ship had spread to two others, and it looked in danger of igniting on the wooden dock.

The battle had thinned out considerably. On the beach, the Noldor were taking care of the last Teleri. A few of the defenders, however, had retreated to firing arrows from standing chest-deep in the ocean, where they could shoot any attacker before they could approach.

Draugil found four elves standing around, some of many who had nothing to do but watch the last of the slaughter. All of them still had their shields and spears. “Follow me,” Draugil said, ignoring the pain in his back and shoulder. The blood had clotted quickly, as elf blood did, and the wounds posed no immediate threat to him.

The five of them made their way to the shore, ducking behind their shields. The Teleri were keen not to waste arrows, so they didn’t fire immediately. Draugil moved to the safety of the back and they advanced on the archers, feeling cold seawater seep into their clothing.

The archers began firing; their arrows bounced off the metal shields with a loud  _ clang _ and a jarring force. The Noldor kept advancing until the Teleri were within range of their spears. The Teleri tried to run away, but their advantage had become the Noldors’. They moved slowly in the water, and the soldiers dispatched of them easily. Their job done, the Noldor began moving back to shore.

Water lapped around Draugil’s waist. His sword arm dangled by his side, too exhausted to put the weapon away. He breathed slowly, deliberately, trying to comprehend the battle that had just passed.

All around him, corpses floated in the surf. A few people were struggling back to shore, leaving trails of red-tinted water behind them. On the beach, the Noldor had several teams moving around, evacuating their own wounded but leaving the Teleri. The last of the able-bodied warriors had encircled the dock, guarding the ships while the civilians boarded.

The salt water still stung the cut on Draugil’s back, and it had permeated his clothing as well. He took a staggering step toward land, feeling out blindly with his feet beneath the black waves.

Something bumped gently against the back of his leg. Draugil turned to look and jumped forward in repulsion. His feet moved slowly in the water and he fell. He caught himself on the sand with his sword arm, but by then he was already submerged chest-deep in the water. The cold made him gasp. 

Behind him was a dead elf; Telerin by his clothing. He was floating facedown, and a halo of golden hair caught the light of the lanterns on the beach. He looked like one Draugil had slain earlier, but he couldn’t be certain. His memories of the fight were a blur.

He turned away from the corpse and made his way back to the land. Now soaked from the neck down, he shivered violently: the weather had turned cold since that morning.

Was it the evening yet? He didn’t know. There was no way of telling; it was always dark now. And he doubted anything was going to change that.

He dragged himself out of the water and onto the beach. The sand shifted under his sodden boots, and he nearly fell; he threw out his sword arm to steady himself. The blade hissed in the air and brought Draugil to his senses; with effort, he sheathed the weapon. His shield had been lost in the battle, and his spear he had discarded earlier. No sense going back for them now; some Teler would have picked them up, or if not, one of the Noldor streaming through the city would return them.

People were already being loaded onto the boats, along with livestock and provisions for the journey. Draugil followed them onboard, onto the largest ship. It was pure white; the silver sails had been unfurled and were rippling in the wind. Fëanáro and his sons were most likely to be here, he thought. He then descended the ladder into the captain’s quarters; no one was there. Someone had been down, though, because a torch was burning in a bracket on the wall. It illuminated the lavish furnishings: a claw-footed table surrounded by three wooden chairs, with a washbasin in the corner.

Rather than go search for them, Draugil collapsed into one of the chairs. He pulled off his helmet and buried his face in his hands, running fingers through his wet hair. It was finally over. How many had he killed? He didn’t know. 

Boots thumped upstairs and Draugil got to his feet, replaced his helmet, and hurried back up the ladder. Fëanáro stood on the deck, but his sons were nowhere to be seen.

For the first time, the High King of the Noldor was still. His visage, smeared with blood, was unreadable. He looked over the sea ahead of them, towards the distant new land of Arda. 

They had wasted no time, it seemed; the ship had already been unmoored and was drifting away from the port. As Draugil watched the shore shrink away, he thought he saw the blond corpse again, floating in the rising tide.


End file.
